


Ignition

by consultingsmartass (consulting_smartass)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fahrenheit 451, Friends to Lovers, M/M, bibliophile Sherlock, book burning, fireman John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:06:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1196157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consultingsmartass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All firemen have heard the stories of the Cachers. Some even swear they’ve seen them at fires. But when John finally corners one of them, he is absolutely unprepared for what happens next.</p><p>Johnlock in the Fahrenheit 451 universe</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ignition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [childhoodinfamy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/childhoodinfamy/gifts).



> For childhoodinfamy for the JLC Valentine’s Day exchange. Prompt was ‘Literally any AU. I really like library AUs, but as long as it turns out happy, I’m happy!’ with requested genres of ‘Generally I prefer happy things. Romance is great, and AUs are the BEST. If you don’t want to go the happy route, pining fics are great, too—as long as the ending isn’t too sad.’
> 
> My sci-fi brain read ‘library AU’ and thought dystopia with book burning, and then: oh wait, I’ve read that one before. So, after a reread of Fahrenheit 451, I decided to put Sherlock and John in that universe, but in London, and let their story play out.
> 
> This is unbetaed, so any errors are mine own.

John sees his first Cacher at a fire in Islington. The tall shadow skirts around the perimeter, somehow managing not to alert the Hound’s olfactory sensors of its presence.

“Did you see that?” he asks Chief Lestrade.

The older fireman is busy supervising the other men pulling the fireproof plastic sheath off of the building they are about to torch. “Hmm, what’cha want, Watson?”

John just shakes his head. Other firemen have reported seeing Cachers before. Stories get passed around during card games, while they wait for the alarm. Most of them laugh at the very idea of people risking their lives to salvage books. John is mostly fascinated.

“Well, get your thrower ready. I think Dimmock and Anderson have just about handled whatever loony is hoarding contraband this time. Shame that the police didn’t manage to get their lazy arses here in time. I really hate it when we have to deal with the people side of things.”

There is a shout from the interior of the house, and two firemen in black, beetle-coloured helmets exit the front door, roughly dragging an elderly woman between them. She screams something about destroying free thought and supressing knowledge until Anderson cuffs her.

“Another one for the mental hospital. At least this one didn’t try to burn herself up with the books,” the Chief mutters, then raises his voice, “Alright you lot, what do we say?”

A chorus of masculine voices chant out the fireman’s motto. John joins in on the second repeat. “Burn ‘em to ashes, then burn the ashes.”

Chief Lestrade nods. “Right you are. Now get to work.”

The smell of petrol permeates the air as litres of the liquid are sprayed upon the house. John walks the edge of the scene, mindful of the mechanical Hound stalking the same edges. No fireman has ever been wrongly neutralized, but the combination of the beast’s appearance (eight insect-like legs, body black as coal except for the neon eyes that glow green-blue) with the sound it makes when it growls (a terrifying combination of an electric sizzle, metallic scraping, and ancient, rusted machinery) is enough to give John the collywobbles.

And then there is the tool the Hound uses on its hunts – a ten-centimetre needle, housed in a proboscis, which injects lethal doses of morphine or procaine. The Hound has all of their scents stored in its memory, to differentiate between friend and foe, but John prefers to keep his distance.

A human-sized shadow detaches from the nearest building and quickly darts into the house. John watches in fascination as the Hound remains completely unaware of the intruder’s presence, busy sniffing a pile of cardboard boxes in the alley. The shadow manages to scurry back out just as Lestrade calls for them to ignite the structure.

John blinks hard and the shadow vanishes completely. He chalks it up as just another story to be shared around the card table and starts to torch the house with his flamethrower.

* * *

He begins to notice the shadow at other fires, flitting in and out just before the final bit of petrol is pumped onto the books. John eventually sneaks off and follows the Cacher while rest of firemen are busy with a big blaze.

The man absolutely reeks of petrol, and John realizes that this must be how the Cachers avoid detection, by masking their scents and not lingering. It also makes it much easier for John to follow the shadow to an upscale flat on Baker Street.

He watches the tall man place his hand on the door scanner, then turn around to look directly at the spot where John is hiding. Most people are afraid of firemen, and if anyone should have a reason to be, it would be a Cacher. But this one actually seems amused by John.

“Come out from behind those bushes and I will show you what you followed me for.”

The Cacher’s voice is rich and deep, and disturbingly inviting. John steps forward, then trails the other man up a set of stairs and into a hospitable but slightly cluttered space.

There are books on every surface. Piles on the sofa. Towers of heavy texts lining the walls. A pair of bookshelves beside the hearth are stuffed to overflowing.

“Make us both some tea while I wash this stink off of my skin,” directs the dark-haired stranger, leaving John alone with the largest collection of contraband he has ever seen. He should be angry at the blatant way this Cacher flaunts his lawlessness, but he is rather shell-shocked instead.

He numbly stumbles into the kitchen, which has heaps of paperbacks on every countertop except for the hob. Does the Cacher even eat? John starts the kettle, and then risks peeking into the refrigerator for milk. But what appears to be a refrigerator on the outside, is in fact a temperature and humidity-controlled unit, containing several dozen ancient volumes.

“Mycroft refused to let me buy an actual storage unit, so I had to make my own.”

John nearly yelps in surprise when the Cacher’s baritone rumbles beside his left ear. He shuts the refrigerator door and spins around to find the man looming over him, drying his hair with a burgundy towel.

Several questions come to mind, but the first one he manages to give voice to is “Who’s Mycroft?”

The Cacher’s upper lip twitches. “My meddlesome older brother who treats my life’s work like it’s an addiction I need to be cured of.”

“Life’s work?”

“Bring the tea into the living room,” directs the Cacher, gliding into the other room and tossing his towel onto the back of one of two unoccupied armchairs. “I take mine with two sugars.”

John frowns, but prepares the tea anyway, using a pair of cups and the sugar he finds in the cupboard above the hob.

The Cacher has pulled a pair of books from his wool coat and is examining them when John places the cup and saucer at his elbow. He eyes the contraband curiously. Although he has spent his entire adult life around books, they are always on fire or about to be. It seems unnatural to be surrounded by books not coated in petrol.

“No doubt you are currently questioning why you have not called for reinforcements.”

Sitting down in the armchair opposite, John finds himself chuckling. “Actually, I was rather curious about who exactly you are and why you let me see your collection, when you know I will have to report it.”

“You surprise me, fireman.” The Cacher picks up his cup and takes a sip. “Tell me, have you ever actually read any of the books before you burn them?”

John frowns. “Absolutely not. That’s illegal.”

“And yet –” The man gestures around the room with his free hand. “– here you sit, surrounded. And not even the least bit interested?”

He would be lying if he said had _never_ thought about it. “Maybe. But I wouldn’t.”

“Ever?” The Cacher’s eyebrows rise as he lowers his cup back to the saucer. “Don’t bother lying to me.”

“You sound awfully sure of yourself, Mr –” fishes John.

“Your clumsy attempt to acquire my name is rather insulting.” His face completely changes to become suddenly menacing. “What would you do if I gave it? Call your little pyromaniac friends? Arrest me? I assure you that I can get out of any trouble you might attempt to bring down upon me.”

“You’re an absolute lunatic, you know that, right?” exclaims John, breathlessly, “You live in the nice part of town, have a brother who actually talks to you, and from what I can tell, you’re fairly intelligent. Why risk all of this, just so you can hoard books?”

“You burn books in seconds, books that took a person years, even a lifetime to write. Does that not bother you?”

John stares. “And just how does accumulating a bunch of books solve anything?”

“There is something fundamentally _wrong_ with our society,” insists the Cacher, leaning forward intently. “Even someone as brainwashed as you can surely sense it.”

“Alright, then,” starts John, trying to keep from feeling personally insulted. “What exactly is so wrong?”

The Cacher narrows his eyes. “Have you ever just sat on the Tube and listened to what everyone says? Have you noticed that everyone talks and talks, but no one ever actually says anything meaningful? The world has become mere iterations of itself. There is nothing new, nothing is ever discussed that could cause anyone discomfort, and independent inquiry is completely discouraged. Schooling is done by screens, which turns children into empty, brainless conformists. There is no encouragement to speak or think critically – everyone simply accepts what they are told as fact. And since neighbour reports on neighbour, there is no sense of community, no trust.” The man stands, twirling around dramatically and going to stand by the window. “No one uses ‘once upon a time’ anymore because there is no imagination. Do you know why books are burnt?” He looks back at John with shining eyes.

John can only shake his head numbly, feeling moderately overwhelmed by the sudden, manic energy of the man before him.

“Books are burnt because they made people feel, whether that is joy or fear or anger, they are unregulated sources of feelings. Discontent and melancholy can breed revolution. Sheep are ever so much easier to control than well-educated, introspective citizens.”

The Cacher stalks over to John, who instinctively leans back.

“People who hold books are seen as dissenters, seeking to make everyone unhappy with conflicting theory and thought.” The man’s eyes flash and his voice lowers. “And the simple fact is that people should not be happy. There is so much so very _wrong_ with this country right now, and people are too stupid to see it. They’ve been programmed not to see it, to ignore it in favour of the mundane and repeatable.”

He has never heard someone say things like this. It would frighten him, if the man before him also had not sent his pulse into overdrive and his brain into a flurry.

But the diatribe apparently requires one final talking point, because the Cacher spits out, “And propaganda holds you and the rest of the firemen as our saviours, when in fact, you march us ever closer to our doom.”

Licking his lips and tamping down his sudden ire, John works to keep his voice even. “If you are trying to convert me to your viewpoint, insulting my profession is probably not the best way to go about it.”

The other man seems surprised by John’s response, as if he was expecting anger or even outright dismissal. He takes a step back and eyes John with a degree of scepticism.

“What, uh,” falters the Cacher for a moment “What would it take?” He swallows, noticeably. “To convert you to my viewpoint.”

John feels his irritation at the man’s assertions ebbing in the face of his sudden insecurity. He finds it a little endearing, even. “A name would be a good starting point.”

The Cacher blinks a few times before tentatively offering his long-fingered hand. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“John Watson.” He grasps the warm hand and firmly shakes. “So, did you really invite me inside to, I don’t know, draft me for your cause?”

Sherlock’s face breaks into a genuine smile. “Absolutely.”

“And how do you plan on doing that, exactly?” inquires John, his own lips forming a small smile.

“Are you happy?” Sherlock asks.

“Am I what?” The question is so bizarre that John lets out a little laugh, certain he is being had.

This appears to annoy Sherlock, because he repeats the question slowly, as if to a child. “Are. You. Happy?”

John mouths the question in disbelief.

“You don’t even know what it means to be happy, do you?” Sherlock leans forward, caging John in by bracing his arms on the chair. “Well, fortunately for you, I have a solution to your problem.”

And then with a smug little smile, Sherlock presents him with a book.

It is hard-cover, leather-bound, with worn edges, as if it has been handled hundreds of times. John turns the book so that he can read the spine.

“Treasure Island by Robert Lewis Stevenson?”  John wonders how an island with treasure could possibly exist.

“Yes, good, you can read. Now, you’d better hurry back to your fire,” Sherlock begins to usher him to the door. “That was a large enough burn that your crew should still be there and not have missed you yet. Of course if they did, you can always say that you were trying to chase a Cacher, which isn’t actually a lie.”

John stops at the threshold, right above the stairs and turns to look at Sherlock.

“What happens after I read it? What if I don’t like it?”

Sherlock looks like he wants to laugh at him. “Come back after you’ve read it. And then we can talk more about ‘drafting’ you.”

* * *

He has to dissolve a melatonin lozenge on his tongue to get to sleep that night, because he is too wired from his conversation with Sherlock to drift off naturally.

When John wakes up in the morning, his first thoughts are that the events of the last night were a dream. That is, until his fingertips touch the edges of the book under his pillow.

He pulls it out and lets it rest on his lap. John knows he should torch it and try to forget about meeting Sherlock. That is what years of fireman instinct scream at him to do.

But Sherlock’s manic passion had been more than a bit amazing. In fact, John had never met anyone so vibrant, so electric. And Sherlock had seemed almost proud, handing over the book, like he was sharing some kind of intimate secret with John.

That thought particularly thrills John, though he knows it should not. He could get in heaps of trouble if he were found with contraband, and if it was also discovered that he had not called in Sherlock’s hoard.

John turns over the book several times thoughtfully, and then opens it, listening to the crack of the spine and inhaling the unique odour of ink and antiquity. He runs his fingers over the type, letting the texture of the paper caress the pads.

If the book enthralled Sherlock so much, then John would give it a proper chance. After all, Sherlock had made a good point about burning books without truly knowing what he was destroying.

Two days later he is back in Sherlock’s flat, asking eagerly for another book. Sherlock just gives him a cocky grin and hands over ‘The Once and Future King’ by T.H. White. John can barely keep it hidden in the Tube, his entire skin itching with desire to begin reading immediately.

He returns in three days, this time staying for tea and an actual conversation about his impressions of the reading, before Sherlock sends him on his way, ‘The Chronicles of Narnia’ by C.S. Lewis. tucked securely in his jacket lining.

From then on, John visits almost daily. Sherlock sometimes lets him linger, to begin reading the first few pages of his selections for John. Other times, Sherlock tells him of the history of how books became banned.

“It started with the censors, called ‘editors’, to hide their true intentions. They would remove anything offensive, starting with just a word here, a paragraph there. Then entire chapters, whole characters were erased, until books were almost completely empty. Their goal was to ensure that books could no longer draw any response or feeling, thus preventing any dissention.”

Sherlock usually paces during these sort of rants, back and forth in front of John’s chair. John rather likes to watch the lean legs propelling the mad genius as he gestures dynamically.

“There also used to be something called ‘the internet’. It allowed people across the entire planet to connect immediately. Can you imagine something so powerful, so inspiring? For the first time, no one had to be alone. They even had interfaces called ‘chat rooms’, where you could talk about anything, where you could share ideas and writing with other people who had common interests.  Of course, the internet was destroyed because it invited people to question things, and would have easily allowed assemblage of the dissonants.

“Pity,” Sherlock huffs as he flounces down onto his chair. “I think I would have found it singularly fascinating.”

John finds the idea of talking to someone across the world a bit mad, but he does like listening to Sherlock describe such fantastic things. The man is so animated, so passionate. And John catches himself sometimes wondering what it would be like if Sherlock were to turn that intense focus onto him, if he were to find John somehow as interesting as the books surrounding them both.

But for now, the fireman is happy to be allowed his chair (because it has become _his_ chair over the last few months) and a chance to watch his beautiful Cacher (because Sherlock is _his_ Cacher). Sherlock has been so unbelievably generous with his time and space, so welcoming, and John has begun to think of Sherlock’s flat as a haven, a bolthole where he can escape in order to read to his heart’s content.

And even if he really does not know much about the man himself, John is content to be allowed in his presence, reading his books, listening to his voice speak his thoughtful words. Because it is better to be allowed to see the starlight, despite knowing that you can never touch it, than to be kept in the dark forever.

* * *

John gets the idea to filch a book from a fire after reading a collection of fairy tales. In one of them, the protagonist demonstrated their appreciation to their patron with gifts. John can think of no better way to show his appreciation to Sherlock for sharing his library than of a gift of another book to add to his collection.

And if it means that he will gain Sherlock’s approval and one of his rare smiles in the process, then it makes the risk all the more worth taking.

He must wait a few nights after he has the idea before the alarm at the firehouse cooperates with his plan.

“Looks like we’ve got another suicide on our hands,” cautions Lestrade unnecessarily as the truck pulls up. The house is already in flames, meaning that the owner was tipped off and decided to burn up with the contraband, rather than face the abhorrent conditions of the mental hospital. The Hound ensures that no one even considers running.

“Set up a perimeter and wait for it to die down. Watson, Anderson, you’ll sweep the structure for any unburned contraband and take care of it with the throwers. The rest of you are in charge of burning the ashes – after all, we’ve got plenty of unused petrol.”

There is a hearty cheer from the other men, while John just nods. He feels a bit sick, thinking of all the wondrous pages currently being burned into nothingness, of all the stories that could have been read but now will never be shared. There is every chance that some of the texts being destroyed right now are the only ones in existence in the world. And that actually causes him some physical pain, to think of such art being permanently erased.

Twenty minutes later, John carefully lifts still-smoking bits of house, searching for any books that might have survived the fire. He makes sure to distance himself from both Anderson and the other firemen, so that he can tuck away anything he finds without being caught.

He has almost given up on finding anything when he picks up a couch cushion that feels abnormally heavy. John looks over his shoulder, sees that he is unobserved, and rips it open.

Inside is a beautifully bound collection of poems written by someone named Edgar Allen Poe. John remembers all the books he has read in the last few months, and knows that this author has not been among them. Nor has this author’s name been on any of the spines of the books around his chair in Sherlock’s flat.

John feels a little bit giddy, seeing the relatively pristine condition of the book and thinking of how it will make an excellent gift for Sherlock. He quickly stows it in his fireproof uniform, then burns the cushion, to erase any evidence that there was ever a book hidden within.

It seems like hours before he is once more hidden away in the warmth of Sherlock’s flat, with his friend peering at him curiously from across the room

“You’ve done something tonight, something you’re extremely delighted about.” Sherlock’s brow knits in perturbation. “You were at a fire tonight and yet you are pleased. How can that be? Surely I’ve instilled the worth of books into you over the last few months. You’ve never returned from a fire happy since we’ve become acquainted.” He stands and stalks forward, until he is hovering over John. “What have you done?” he demands, his voice icy. Unlike their first meeting, John does not flinch.

“I actually did something for you.”

Sherlock tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. “What? What have you done?”

John reaches into his jacket and pulls out the book. “I got you this.” He lifts it toward the other man and Sherlock looks down at it in shock.

Sherlock’s long fingers reach forward and take hold of the text, reverently cradling it to his chest. “Poe. You found me Poe?” the man utters in a bewildered voice. “You’re _giving_ me this?”

This is not the reaction John was expecting. He thought that Sherlock might be delighted by his act of spontaneity, even impressed.

Instead, Sherlock is looking at him with an entirely unprecedented expression. It almost looks like awe, but John’s never done much of anything worthy of inspiring awe in Sherlock before. He’s rather been more of a sycophant, absorbing and basking in the brilliance of his friend. Maybe Sherlock is confused as to why John would give him something, when Sherlock has only leant him books in the past. Or perhaps it is embarrassment at being caught unawares by John’s action.

John is so busy trying to figure out what it means that he nearly jumps when Sherlock suddenly swoops forward and kisses him. His lips are smooth and lush, pressing gently against John’s like he will break if any actual pressure is applied. It takes John only seconds to reengage his brain and press back into the kiss, parting his own lips so that he can trap Sherlock’s full bottom lip between them.

The way that Sherlock is standing over him makes it difficult for John to do more than react to Sherlock’s lead, but the other man is quite obviously relaxing into the moment. Sherlock turns his head slightly and licks John’s upper lip, and John takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth. He slowly, meticulously strokes into the warmth and then withdraws, gently biting at Sherlock’s plump lower lip. Sherlock presses his lips against John’s with more force, reciprocating with nips and licks, sending a bolt of arousal straight to John’s cock when he imagines that mouth doing similar things to other areas of his body.

Sherlock eventually pulls away as the kiss reaches a natural end, looking unexpectedly vulnerable. “I, uh…”

John offers a cautious smile, which is quickly returned, much to his relief.

It also seems to give Sherlock the tenacity to finish his thought. “This gift is truly a treasure. If you would allow me to read some of it aloud, before you go? The last time I heard Poe I was a child, and I would very much like to share it with you.”

And John can only nod in amazement at the prospect of hearing Sherlock’s beautiful baritone wrapping itself around something that holds such value to him.

It only occurs to him hours later, as he lies in bed trying to fall asleep, that perhaps Sherlock has been slowly courting him with books. And that John has just reciprocated, which might explain why Sherlock was so overwhelmed.

The tiniest flare of hope and want flares in John’s chest. Because the thought of Sherlock wanting to share more than just his books is incredibly enticing.

* * *

The next day, Chief Lestrade calls him into his office.

“How long have you been a fireman, John?” the Chief asks as he lights a cigarette.

John thinks for a moment. “Uh, I think I’m about to hit my eighth anniversary, sir.”

Lestrade exhales smoke. “You were in the war before you joined the 451st, yeah?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you see much action?”

John begins to wonder as to the purpose of this conversation. “A bit. No more than most.”

“Hmm,” Lestrade hums, “Good at following orders, then? I’d expect that you were an officer from the way you carry yourself even if I hadn’t read your records.”

“I did as I was ordered, yes.” He mostly tries not to think about that part of his past, a lifetime and continent away.

Lestrade leans back in his desk chair. “You know, there always comes a time in a fireman’s career when he at least considers stealing a book from a fire, just to see what the fuss is all about.”

John suppresses the urge to fidget. “Really?” He speaks a bit faster than he intends, and he knows that Lestrade must pick up on it.

“Fortunately, we have policy in place to protect our firemen should such an event actually occur. If one of my men were to hypothetically take a book from a scene, he would have twenty-four hours to leave it on my desk so that it can be properly disposed of.” Lestrade takes another drag and then releases the breath. “It would be essentially a one-time, consequence-free thing. No questions asked.”

“That’s certainly good to know about, sir,” replies John, as calmly as he can manage.

“Glad to bring you into the loop policy-wise, John. Why don’t you take the rest of the day to digest this fact, eh?” Lestrade gives him a knowing smile and gestures to the door.

“Thank you, sir.” He stands and exits Lestrade’s office, trying to keep his tread light and even, as if he had not just been called out for stealing a book and given an ultimatum on its return.

John walks past the Hound’s cage, wondering if he imagines the raspy/clunky/eerie growl emanating from the dark room. He grasps the fire pole and holds on as it pulls him up to the changing room, where he grabs his jacket and wallet.

He leaves the firehouse and walks to the nearby coffee shop to think over his situation in a neutral location. After ordering and picking up his drink, he sits in a corner table, which gives him a view on all the occupants of the shop. The majority of patrons have ear buds in, listening to the music and talk show stations. There is no verbal conversation amongst tables, because that would require removing the buds, so people lip-read instead.

It is no wonder they have all become emotionally deadened, John thinks, with screens and voices constantly telling them what to believe. Sherlock was absolutely right on that count.

Taking a swig of his coffee, John ignores the other customers and considers his situation. There are really only two options: either hand over the book and continue living as a fireman and a fraud in his own life, or…

John does not dare give up any of Sherlock’s other books as a surrogate, because it is likely Lestrade knows exactly which book he took. And there is no way he can take back the book of Poe’s poetry, not after the way that Sherlock reverently read those verses.

It suddenly hits John that he has absolutely no intention of turning over Poe or any other book to Lestrade. Such a thought should frighten him – that he will no longer belong to this world if he chooses to ally with Sherlock, to essentially become a fugitive. But he has been drawn to Sherlock so strongly from the start, felt an overwhelming attachment since their first meeting. Sherlock has made him _feel_ for the first time in his life and it is so strong and overwhelming and he needs it, wants it, has to have it or he will be dead like he was before. And that is too terrible a fate to even imagine.

So John spends the rest of the afternoon in deep thought, weighing options and plotting out potential futures.

* * *

Sherlock greets him with a thorough snogging, pressing him against the door and framing his face with those gloriously dexterous fingers.

When he finally pulls back to study John’s face, his own creases in concern.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Sherlock looks down and sees the bag. “Why have you brought that?”

John squares his shoulders and straightens his spine, reluctant to share his news, but knowing it is necessary.

“The Chief knows I took a book from the last fire. He told me I have a day to turn it in without any consequences.”

Sherlock’s face loses the rosy glow leftover from their zealous greeting. “What are you going to do?” he asks, meekly.

That Sherlock does not already know that John would never take any of his books from him makes John stop breathing momentarily.

“I would never –” he chokes out, “– ever do anything to hurt you.”

The striking eyes above him still look uncertain.

“I…I don’t need the books. I mean, I do value them and what they’ve shown me. I now know what’s missing, what will make me happy.” John peers upward at Sherlock’s still vulnerable face, takes a deep breath, then a chance. “I need you.”

“You need me?” Sherlock breathes out.

John chuckles. “Yeah, you see anybody else here with ridiculous cheekbones and a sinful voice that makes me rethink the universe?”

Sherlock once more has that dazed look about him, the very same he possessed the night previous after John handed him the book of poetry. “What are you going to do, then? About the book?”

“When I do not return after my day grace period, they’ll send the Hound after me. And it already has my scent stored, so it will be able to track me more efficiently than ordinary citizens. My scent is going to be strongest back at my flat…and here. If they find this place and you, I will never forgive myself.” John takes a deep breath and launches into the plan he developed earlier that afternoon in the coffee shop. “So I have brought some chemical neutralizers that should mostly erase my scent from this flat. I would also recommend dumping some extra petrol, like you do when you run around as a Cacher. That should be enough to keep you off of their radar.”

“You’re going to run?”

John swallows, knowing that this part of the plan is the least developed. “I know a few tricks from being around the bloody beast all this time, so I should be able to get out the city. From there, I have a much better chance of evading anything they send my way.”

“I could hide you until they stop looking.” Sherlock’s voice has developed an edge of insistence.

“You have so much to lose by concealing me. I won’t let you take that risk.”

Sherlock pushes away from the door, frustration radiating from the sharp edges of his frame. “You can’t leave me. I won’t let you.”

John’s smile is bittersweet. “Yes you will. Because it is one of only two things I will ever ask of you.”

Sherlock stops moving and looks directly at John. “What’s the second?”

“That you and I spend tonight together. Preferably in your bed, but since I’ve never seen it, I’m not entirely sure if it’s completely covered in books or not, so we might have to modify that part of my request.”

The flush returns to Sherlock’s cheeks and he drops his voice. “Oh, I assure you, the bed is quite available.”

A shiver of anticipation and excitement runs down John’s spine. “Good. Care to make use of it?”

“Most definitely.” And Sherlock launches himself at John, pushing the bag from his shoulder and guiding his face up so that their lips can meet again. Sherlock is rougher this time, biting slightly harder on John’s lower lip and pressing his tongue into his mouth more enthusiastically. John leans into the taller man’s frame, letting his hands brush down Sherlock’s sides until they reach around to grab his arse and pull his hips into John’s.

Sherlock groans at the feeling of their bodies flush against one another and John grins through the kiss, thinking just how much better it will feel when they are completely naked. Sherlock must arrive at the same thought, because he begins pulling John along the hallway to his bedroom, yanking his jacket off in the process.

John’s jumper and the shirt underneath are next, and he thinks it is only fair that Sherlock be topless too, so he makes quick work of the gunmetal grey button up. They stumble into Sherlock’s surprisingly clutter-free bedroom and onto the similarly clear bed.

“Oof,” John exhales as he is sandwiched between the bed and Sherlock’s solid body, then immediately moans as Sherlock’s lips and tongue connect with his throat. Sherlock nuzzles his neck with his nose, and then licks the outer shell of his ear, nibbling along the warm strip of skin with his teeth. Barely able to breathe from being turned on so much, John reaches between them and traces the perimeter of Sherlock’s swelling cock with one finger, adding another to run down the middle.

Sherlock groans, pulling back so that they can both remove their trousers and pants. Once they are completely free of clothing, he moves his body in a wave, pressing first their foreheads together, followed by their chests, and finally their groins. Their cocks brush up against one another and John lets out an embarrassingly tortured sound, as if that connection has been lacking in his life for far too long, which it has.

He grasps both of them and slowly pumps. Sherlock lightly bites at his collarbone, as if he does not trust himself not to shout. John starts to speed up his hand and grins when he notices Sherlock biting harder in response.

“What do you want?” John asks, squeezing a little with his next stroke. Sherlock lifts his head and kisses him deeply, then pulls back and grins wickedly.

“I want you in my mouth, I need to taste you,” murmurs the genius. “And then I would very much like to continue with what you were just doing.”

John releases their cocks, gasping as Sherlock shimmies down his body, teasingly licking each of his nipples on the way down. Sinfully decadent lips wrap around his cock and begin sucking, and John’s head falls back in ecstasy. Sherlock alternates sucking, swirling his tongue around the head, and running his tongue along the underside of John’s cock with no discernable rhythm. John can barely lift his head, let alone open his eyes long enough to watch, because the visual of Sherlock sucking him and looking like he is loving it is nearly too much.

And when Sherlock pops off of his cock with a filthy, wet sound, then licks behind his balls, John nearly does orgasm.

“Oh, God. Please, Sherlock. I need you up here, now.”

Sherlock slides back up, so that John can sink one hand into those thick curls and press his tongue into that warm, wet mouth. The other hand immediately grasps them both together, and this time, Sherlock wraps his hand around John’s.

And together, they stroke each other until John comes with a shout, and Sherlock followings not long after, with a lengthy, erotic moan.

Much later, when their pulses have settled back to resting, and they are curled up sharing body heat, John feels the need to be completely clear about something.

“I cannot tell you how grateful I am to have been given the gift of your companionship for all these months,” John admits, earnestly. “You asked me when we first met if I was happy. And at the time, I didn’t even know what that meant.”

Sherlock strokes his fingertips along John’s ribcage lovingly. “And now?”

“Now I know that you are my happiness,” John admits with a contented sigh. “And knowing that is quite possibly the best feeling I’ve ever had in my entire life.”

“You had better return to me, John Watson,” demands Sherlock, but the insistence of his mandate is undercut by the pleading in his eyes. “You got to ask for two things, but I only want one. Come back to me.”

John smiles and presses a soft kiss onto Sherlock’s forehead. “For you, I will always return.”


End file.
